Caravan Life - invading travellers, threats of murder, night time fights - it's all happening here!

Hearing of our circumstances (of no fixed abode, dossing in a caravan) people frequently ask us, ‘What’s it like living on a caravan site?’ In truth, it’s a microcosm of life outside, different only in that it’s largely a changing population, rotating from week to week. Its quiet Monday to Friday, then come the weekend the population doubles, and with that can surface some problems...

It’s a bit like Christmas. More relationships fall apart on the back of the festive season, than at any other time of the year, apparently.  People are thrown together who normally only see one another at weekends, tensions increase, arguments over visiting relatives and organising THE BIG DAY can all end in tears – and divorce.

Caravanning can be like that. Not seeing one another all week, then come the weekend, they’re hitching up and moving out to the countryside. They arrive at the site, things have to be set up, then you’re tired from the journey, hot and sweaty, but there’s still the awning to erect. Entertaining for everyone else as the air turns blue and the first domestic of the weekend has happened.

We’ve seen our fair share of that from the comfort of our own awning, sipping a glass of wine or two, as the weekenders have huffed and puffed and tempers have flared.

A quiet wash day at Riverbank Caravan Site

Sometimes those pressures can boil over to extremes, and it isn’t funny.

I thought I was a light sleeper, and according to Linda, she doesn’t sleep a wink. Yet two domestic incidents occurred – one right next door – and we slept blissfully unaware through it all.

I was filling the aquaroll with water at the communal tap when a chap who was doing his recycling said, “What did you make of last night?” I looked at him quizzingly. “You know, it woke everyone up! Didn’t you hear the police car? Three o’clock this morning.”

Apparently screaming woke people up, and outside they found a woman in a distressed state, wearing only her night clothes. The site owner appeared, and someone called the police, who arrived a few minutes later. The woman did not want to press charges, so the police took her home to Manchester.

 It was the same about a week later. The site owner came over to talk to us while I was frying bacon for breakfast. “The people who were pitched next to you have asked me to apologise on their behalf.” Linda and I exchanged glances, and I shrugged. “What for?”  Malcolm shook his head. “You didn’t hear the bust-up early on Sunday morning?” Linda caught the toast as it popped out of the toaster, and looked up. “What bust-up?”

A middle aged couple, their grown-up daughter and two grandchildren were pitched next to us. We hadn’t heard a thing all weekend. But in the lead-up to the early morning altercation, the wine and beer had been flowing. The daughter had received some text messages from her ex-partner, saying he was missing her and the children. In her drunken state she said she was going to put the kids in the car and drive over to him. Apparently it was all very emotional, and very traumatic. Her parents  grabbed the car keys, and she fought back, voices were raised, and there was the slamming of car doors, before she was stopped. They finally subdued her, but after a sleepless night, they packed up and left early.

We never heard a thing. So much for, ‘I can’t sleep a wink’.

One of our more permanent neighbours was Mr Knott. I say ‘was’, because he’s no longer here. And it wasn’t through his choice he went.

David Knott was on the next pitch to us when we were on the smaller ‘CL’ site. He moved onto the higher field (which is neither part of the CL nor the commercial site) when he got flooded during heavy rain. “Look!” he said aghast, as we walked past, his wellies in three inches of water. We were mainly dry on our pitch, and there is some suspicion the flooding was not caused by the weather.

When I mentioned it to Malcolm, he pulled a face. “It’s happened before, when it hasn’t rained. He was pitched near the reception then and I found it flooded outside. He said it had rained, but it hadn’t – everywhere else was bone dry. He’d been filling his waterhog with a hose pipe, and had forgotten about it. I admit there was rain this time - but I think he’s done the same again!”

Whatever the truth, Mr Knott got a move to one of the new pitches on the higher field. When we left the site for a week, we joined him, on our return. It’s quieter up here, especially when the site’s packed at weekends.

David Knott was a joiner. In his sixties, he was thin and wiry with black hair and a beard. His caravan was bedecked with wind chimes, bird feeders, a weather vane and hanging baskets. Once he parked a converted horse box outside. It was an amazing piece of kit. On the outside were strapped ladders and a workmate. Inside were shelves of screwdrivers, chisels, planes, an electric drill, screws and nails, securely clipped into place. A joiner's Aladdin’s cave.

I was telling Malcolm about it, but he seemed unimpressed. “All he needs is some work and then he can pay me what he owes.” Mr Knott hadn’t been paying his site fees.

He told us he’d got some work at a local Indian restaurant. He said if we mentioned his name ‘we’d be well looked after’. Apparently he was almost a member of the family. The restaurant owner’s gran had died suddenly, and John had driven him to Birmingham in the early hours of the morning, as he was in no fit state. Now David had been invited to the daughter’s Hindu wedding. He was chuffed!

Mr Knott's caravan - bedecked with charms and talismans

You weren’t always sure Mr Knott was telling the truth. He came home one day and said he’d been in A & E for hours. He’d been lifting some heavy oak doors, and his back had gone. They’d X-rayed his back, and David told us he had two slipped discs. It hadn’t seemed to affect his mobility much. I thought he’d be bent over and in agony, or at least walking with difficulty. I did give him the benefit of the doubt, and filled his 50 litre water barrel when he wasn’t there. You did wonder.

When we returned after a trip to Ireland, his caravan was there but David wasn’t. We’d noticed before we’d left that he was leaving earlier than normal, and not coming back until about ten at night. At the time we thought he was working long hours and then eating in the Indian restaurant. But now I think he was avoiding the owner.

After a week of not showing, I asked the owner what had happened to him. Linda and I thought he might be in hospital with his back, or on holiday. “I’ve evicted him,” the owner said. “He hasn’t paid me for ages. I just need him to take his caravan away!”

A few days later Mr Knott appeared and set about hitching up his caravan – after the owner had threatened to drag his caravan off the pitch with his tractor! I went out to speak to him. David told me a tale of some travellers who he’d caught trying to break into his converted horse box. He’d got some of his pals from Liverpool to come over, and they’d gone to the travellers’ camp and threatened them with murder if they’d try to steal his tools again!

“I’ve settled up with Malcolm,” he explained, but I’ve decided to move because I don’t want the travellers following me here, and giving the owner trouble. In any case, I’ve been offered a job in Barbados, training apprentices. I think that’s where I’m heading next!”

Apparently he’d paid off a good portion of his debt, but not all of it. The owner was glad to see the back of him.

Mr Knott might have got inspiration for the traveller’s tale from the site owner. Malcolm told us that he’d been alerted when two gypsy caravans had been towed onto the site. The owners had left, it seemed, to bring more caravans. Malcolm acted swiftly. He towed them off the site and onto the road – then called the police. Five police cars appeared to stop any trouble! "Worse day of my life," Malcolm concluded.

We wonder if Mr Knott has gone to Barbados, ever went to the Hindu wedding, or had the travellers killed...

Watch this space.

Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

Caveat emptor (buyer beware - be very aware!)

If anyone tells you it is less stressful house hunting than it was selling their property, they’re probably massaging the truth. Okay, there might be some who find the house of their dreams with the click of a mouse, but they probably knew exactly which area they wanted to move to, and weren’t too fussy as long as it filled some basic criteria. With us it’s more complex. We’ve narrowed it down to Cheshire, north Shropshire and a bit of Lancashire, and it could be detached, semi-detached, maybe even a bungalow – a ‘character’ property or something new that has a look of ‘old’ about it...

I thought a holiday in Ireland culminating with a Game of Thrones musical performance in Dublin, would have calmed nerves and reduced tensions for our return to Cheshire and the resumption of our search. How wrong I was...

Ireland was a welcome break, but the house hunting didn't improve...

 We’re on the same wave length to some degree; we don’t want a new build on an estate, because parking is important to us, and preferably detached because of the 5.1 surround sound (we don’t want to upset the neighbours). Attached is a possibility if it isn’t joined lounge to lounge.

One piece of advice we’d had from friends is that we shouldn’t be easily dismissive of what we’ve seen online, and should make arrangements for more internal viewings as opposed to ‘drive-by’ viewings.

With this in mind we took another look at some of the properties we’d had some interest in but had dropped because of things we hadn’t liked or because of assumptions we’d made. We’d always had a soft spot for barn conversions, but what had put us off was the communal parking that some developments had, and the unlikelihood that we wouldn’t be able to store our caravan. Maybe we should entertain the prospect of keeping it elsewhere?

For starters we decided to go and look at one I’d saved before we went away. It was near Wem in north Shropshire, a town we quite liked. We followed the instructions on the webpage that took us off the main road into a network of country lanes. The lanes got narrower and it was difficult to find any passing-places. We were thinking of turning around (if that was possible!) when the property came into view. In fact it wasn’t one property, but four, all in the process of conversion, plus a farmhouse.

We stopped at the entrance, and despite the warning signs, and the fact we hadn’t made an appointment, Linda got out and walked to the end house. We were peering through the window when a man approached. I explained we were passing and... But he said rather gruffly that appointments were being handled by the agent. We were preparing to leave, when he asked us what our ‘situation’ was. When we told him we had sold our property and were cash buyers, his tone changed immediately. He offered not only to show us around that house, but the other three too. He even offered us cake and a cup of tea! Money talks...

We were impressed by the finish and attention to detail on the work that had been completed. Of the four we were particularly drawn to one which had a front garden with views across fields. And it was well within our budget. I was concerned though about the dining area in the kitchen. I wasn’t convinced it was big enough. We do a lot of entertaining, so it’s important that we have seating for six if need be, but certainly four.

As the conversion is in its early days, we’ve asked for a floor plan with measurements, and we’re planning a second visit. We took a different route back to the main road – which was shorter and not as scary. Estate agents take note: Poor access can put off potential buyers.

We liked this - but would the dining area be big enough?

As we were in the mood for barn conversions, we booked to view a property, one of a block of four, north of Nantwich. One had been sold, the two in the middle were empty, and the owner lived in the other. Ambiguous signage made it difficult to find, so as we were early, we parked nearby and waited for the agent to arrive. When a car drew up we assumed it was her, but the driver wanted to know why we were parked on her drive! It was also the access to the house we’d come to view, so we wondered if this might be a complication. Another car appeared, and we asked where Ash Tree Cottage was. The driver pointed us in the right direction, and finished with ‘good luck’, as if we would need it. It turned out he lived next door but one.

Louise, the agent, was waiting for us. Her sales pitch went something like this: ‘I know next door needs some attention, but the owner is planning to sell it to a builder.’

‘Needs some attention’ was an understatement! Neglected was more like it. The front door and the window frames were rotten, and the interior, which we glanced at through a dirty window, was unkempt and needed gutting. Not a good start.

Things improved when we went indoors. The property had been updated, and it was spacious, with lots of light, which is unusual for a barn conversion. The garden was a nice size, and the view was of open countryside. Upstairs gave us a view too - of next door’s front garden, the owner of all three properties. It looked like shanty town. Tall wooden gates, which gave access to his house from the one we were in, were dilapidated. There was a run-down shed, other unidentifiable ‘buildings’, and an old caravan that someone was obviously living in.

The property we’d come to view was blighted by what was either side, which was a shame. We were also unimpressed by the access, a narrow potholed drive. When Louise phoned us the following day, we told her we loved the property but not the neighbours. She didn’t argue.

But worse was yet to come...

We’d been aware for some time of a group of barn conversions on a country estate just inside the Shropshire border. In fact we’d driven up the long drive some weeks before out of curiosity, and met one of the residents. “It’s lovely living here,” she said, “although there are one or two problems.” This turned out to be an understatement. As we gazed across at the parkland, large parking area and tennis courts, she informed us there was only one property left for sale. We already knew that – and we also knew it was beyond our budget.

Some weeks later I got an alert from Rightmove that said the property had been reduced in price – by £70,000! Was this too good to be true? We called the agent and arranged a viewing for the next day. Apparently there were now two houses for sale, as one had fallen through.

As we arrived a man appeared. I said to Linda; “Neighbourhood Watch probably. He wants to know what we’re doing here.”  But it was nothing of the sort. “Are you viewing one of the properties?” he asked. I nodded. “Well there are a few things you should know if you’re thinking of living here!”

He then told us of structural defects, uncompleted work and things that had been changed after the plans had been passed by the council. “I can back everything up with emails,” he added, just as Sophie, the agent, appeared. The two exchanged a curt ‘hello’ and then she dragged us away towards the first of the two properties, which had a SOLD sign in the window. She explained that the  chain had collapsed.

It was very impressive on one level. Rooms were spacious and full of light – if anything it was too big for us. Sophie told us the price had been dropped for a quick sale, and added. “You don’t even need to move in to make a profit. You could buy it and sell it in a few months and make a killing!”

 While the layout was impressive the finish wasn’t. Floors were bare, double glazing was narrow, and in places the walls looked knocked about. Worse of all were the flies; hundreds of black corpses on every window ledge. “Something’s died,” I muttered, looking at Sophie. She said it had, but not to worry as the body had been removed. We wondered why someone hadn’t cleared away the dead flies too.

She didn’t seem too keen for us to examine the walk-in wardrobe in the master bedroom, and kept talking to distract us. The evidence was there, one the floor, the outline of a body, probably a rat, with a circle of dead flies around it.

We’d seen enough, and said we’d think about it, although in truth there was nothing to think about. We didn’t need to see the other house, and indeed she never offered to show us around. She must had realised it was a lost cause. Outside there were now two men waiting. Sophie got into her car, and the wheels spun on the gravel, showing her frustration and anger.

“We’re not trying to put you off buying, the new man said, but we feel anyone considering living here knows what they’re letting themselves in for.”

They said the sale had fallen through, not because of a broken chain, but because the buyers’ solicitor could not get answers from the builders to a list of questions concerning problems on the estate. We were told of a retaining wall that had moved, shown bare electrical wiring to outside lights buried just beneath the gravel, learned of sewers not connected and shown examples of poor workmanship. In someone’s lounge we saw a builder’s pole supporting a wooden beam, which apparently had started cracking under the weight of the building above.

They showed us emails from planning officers of the council. The latest was the result of a visit by a senior officer who said he was writing to the developers with a list of faults, and giving them ten days to respond, threatening legal action.

The more they told us, the more we started noticing shoddy work ourselves. Holes in walls plugged with bricks and mortar which did not match the original, and a lack of pointing that left gaps between bricks.

We thanked them for their time and wished them good luck in getting things resolved.

“It’s a nice place to live,” one of them said sadly. “They need to put everything right, otherwise we will be left picking up the pieces - literally!”

Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)